The Work of Happy Parenting
I ventured into parenthood with the naive confidence of the “I know” mind. I was certain parenting wouldn’t be easy, but that it could be fun and we were as prepared as we would ever be to cross into the wilderness — a version of reality for a spongy mind in which we were expected to have at least some of the answers. I committed to read 70 books this year in an attempt to fill my napsack with more ideas on how to live, love, cope, thrive, grow. Survival tools for the parenting wilderness: Soft heart, thick skin, and a buttload of good ideas.
I just finished “How to Love” by Thich Nhat Hanh — a short book full of wonderfully simple concepts of love that would take a lifetime to live. To love without attachment and expectation, but with understanding and presence is an idea worth passing along. I have filled a notebook with scribbles worth sharing from 14 books so far. The gap between the “I” that knows these things now and the “me” who is supposed to live them is wide.
I want to be right. I want to know. And I want to be there already. I want the luxury of looking back on this time now and understanding how it changed me, but I still have the changing to do.
Roman philosopher Seneca (“The Younger”) described this as the weariness of the preoccupied — the desire to skip over all the days between now and some desired day of future happiness. If we are mindful of irreplaceable time, we are less likely to sacrifice today’s happy to become happy in a conditional future.
In the words of Quaker socialist A. J. Muste: “There is no way to peace. Peace is the way.” There is no way to happiness. Happiness is the way.
In “How to Love,” Hanh writes: “If we have happy parents, we have received the richest inheritance of all.” Many of us know conditionally happy parents (/loved ones) from experience — and the irrational sense of responsibility we can develop for another’s happiness as a result. If I leave nothing else behind for this little tyke, I will at least have attempted to live my own happiness and encourage his through listening, understanding, and offering guidance where I am able. I have to hope this mindset will help lessen his suffering in the wake of my inevitable mistakes.
Sometimes I picture parenthood as a minefield full of mistakes others never meant to make, when intentions got misinterpreted or when cuts were caused by carelessness.
I know there’s time and I’m not expected to have answers. Everyone is doing the best they can. Everyone is doing the best they can. Everyone is doing the best they can.
I’m in a wilderness of my own. My “I” and “me” have been in a philosophical arm wrestle in which my better self urges my lesser “me” to put in the time today and not rush to justify my own actions when I fall short. I intended to take my son for a walk yesterday. I didn’t. It’s okay. But how many times is it okay before I get used to the idea that it’s okay to not go for the walk? Because that was the third day in a row I intended to and the third day in a row I didn’t.
In a letter to his friend Paulinus (compiled with two others in the book “On the Shortness of Life”), Seneca wrote, “Life will follow the path it began to take, and will neither reverse nor check its course. It will cause no commotion to remind you of its swiftness, but glide on quietly.”
That’s where mindfulness kicks in. To make intentional, meaningful use of our time. To make the days longer with purpose and to fill the years with relics of “we were here.” To lessen our own suffering and that of others in hopes to elevate all. I’m starting with the circle of mine. Trying to love my family better, to meet friends and strangers with understanding, and to be a source of relief, not of strain, in the lives of people I love.
The goal of mindfulness is broad and big and only achievable in bringing a lofty idea like “intention” to practice in reality. To aim for presence is to show up every day attempting to break inertia.
On this, Hanh writes:
“We should practice in such a way that every moment is fulfilling. We should feel satisfaction in every breath, in every step, in every action. This is true fulfillment. When you take a step, there is fulfillment. When you perform any action, there is the fulfillment that comes from living deeply in the present moment … This is mindfulness; we become aware of what is happening now and we are in touch with the conditions of happiness that are there inside us and all around us.”
I’ve been introducing one new practice of mindfulness each week, snowballing them into what I hope will become habit. The first week I meditated to acknowledge my thoughts as thoughts, not realities. The second week I added meditation on feelings as body sensations — what fear, anger, and joy feel like. The third I did nothing and backslid into sluggishness. The fourth I worked on choosing gratitude. The fifth I am working on intention.
More specifically, to select my intentions and meditate on thoughts I choose while doing something. If I feel resentful about doing the dishes because it’s a grimy, thankless job, I stain the action with non-virtuous intention. But if I wash dishes with the intention of contributing to my family, of achieving a cleanish home … If I focus on being grateful for running water, for the scent of lemon verbana dish soap, for the pickled fingertips at the end of the job, and for the greater sense of accomplishment and comparably more fulfilling relaxation at the end of a day I broke a sweat in, doing dishes can be meaningful.
When I focus on being truly present, moments of connection echo through days where I’m adrift, pulling me back to the shore of reality. It can be painful and overwhelming to be present. To look at my partner and see him breathing in and out, aware of his beating heart, of the infinity of his consciousness — and the fact he chooses here with us opens a window to love and gratitude that sustains. But it also reminds me of our impermanence and frailty.
The more I try to cling to each present moment out of fear of losing it, the faster they seem to disappear. Love without attachment is a life’s work. But I want it now.
